Plaguing the Limelight is a dry heat that has you panicking for your next breath. Part of the problem is in accommodating the metastasising sentient that is the Gallows Sect, delivering droves of rapscallions into the venue’s L-shaped confines.

We prefer to imagine, though, that in order to expel such sepulchral ire and infected hopelessness in the making of Grey Britain, the band made it all the way to hell and brought a little of the weather back with them.

Emerging to ‘The Riverbed’s ominous cello, they swiftly pull the rug with the sulphurous intensity of ‘The Vulture (Part II)’ which is tailed by the ruinous mania of ‘Friendly Bombs’, marble-sized clots of adrenaline congressing at the base of your neck. In the bastard heat ‘Just Because…’ is almost a religious experience. Frequently, Frank will run a thumbnail across his Tattoo-ravished neck and his inked collar could just as easily be a noose..

Needless to say in the midst of London Is The Reason (it’s ‘Belfast’ tonight) Carter is soon travelling to the bar and back via the chalky network of valves and steel pipes overhead and when he stage dives, well the guy means it. Rather than ego-flopping onto expectant palms, Carter rakes his shoulder across meters of squirming mosh before his skinny calves can capsize from their Jesus-pointing poise.

Frank’s reflux-damaged vocals have dropped noticeably in pitch from altissimo chainsaw to mid-register Blunderbuss and dueting with shojo harlequin Eva Spence (of support band Rolo Tomassi) on ‘Black Hearted Queen’, he puckers his lips in awe as she does things with a still-developing larynx that they don’t have a name for yet.

Perhaps you favour Orchestra of Wolves’ kinetics to the blustering metalcore on their Grand Guignol of a second album – the sweeping scope and ostentatious riffage seem somewhat gormless, orthodox even, next to the debut’s rollicking anarchy and debased sense of mischief. Live, though, ‘The Riverbank’, ‘Misery’, ‘Death Voices’ and the incredible ‘Black Eyes’ all are meted out at a determined pace and the Young Turks at the front rage merrily to the amusement of the band.

They encore with ‘Crucifucks’, both guitarists upgrading to a snare and mobilized for an end-of-days tattoo. As the bass drops away to just Frank and the drumline, his ragged doomsaying, exorcised with bug-eyed conviction, is just about the most exciting 30 seconds of the show. God bless this great depression, indeed.